


burn me like a wildfire (kiss me like a bruise)

by jolie_unfiltrd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Afternoon delight, And to know someone somewhere might be touching them, F/M, I just need his biceps to exist, In all of my universes dickon is alive okay, Jealousy, Married Sex, Porn with Feelings, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 14:03:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12344136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jolie_unfiltrd/pseuds/jolie_unfiltrd
Summary: Looking up at him as he was thrusting into her, she couldn’t resist licking the sweat dotting the sharp curve of his jaw. He chuckled and looked at her, eyes dark as thunderstorms and promising as sin, and shifted his hips slightly. Oh fuck - she thought, and then could think no more.





	burn me like a wildfire (kiss me like a bruise)

Looking up at him as he was thrusting into her, she couldn’t resist licking the sweat dotting the sharp curve of his jaw. He chuckled and looked at her, eyes dark as thunderstorms and promising as sin, and shifted his hips slightly. Oh fuck - she thought, and then could think no more, wrapping her legs tighter around his waist, nails raking across his broad shoulders hard enough to draw blood, head leaning back against the wall, mouth open, panting. She let out a soft, guttural moan and her eyes fluttered closed as he shifted his hips and thrusted once more, chuckling darkly at her unraveling. 

The skin of her neck was glistening with sweat, and he bit down hard where the curve of her shoulder met her neck, tasting the salt and something that was distinctly her, that he would smell on him for days. It was no small wonder he was addicted to her, to this feeling.

“Please please please please…” She had started begging under her breath - he didn’t even think she was aware she was doing it - eyes closed, hips undulating faster and faster against him, grinding in impossible rhythms. He swallowed hard, trying to remain any semblance of self-control, fingers tightening around her hips tight enough to leave a bruise, watching intently as a moan spilled from her mouth. Halting his movements immediately, he couldn’t help but grin wickedly at the whine that escaped her before her eyes flashed open. 

“That’s it, my girl, I want you to look at me when you come,” he leaned in closer to kiss up her neck and whisper in her ear, voice rough with desire, body trembling as he struggled to stay still, as deep as he was in her, feeling the fluttering of her walls around his cock. “I want you to know exactly who is making you come, you sweet, filthy girl.” 

It was an experiment, and a successful one at that. He felt her quiver around him as she moaned, the flash of surprise on her face - they had never talked like that before - quickly being overtaken by a look of pure heat and wanting. She leaned her forehead against his, locking her ankles around his waist and rolling her hips up against him, once, twice, testing his resolve - and he gave in completely, snapping his hips forward and into her roughly, over and over again, the weight of his resting heavy on hers. 

There was a buzz of electricity in her body, she was a live wire ready to ignite, and damn him, he knew that. The litany of wicked words continued their welcome assault on her ears as his eyes remained locked on her - she wanted to look away, to close her eyes and escape the burning sensation, let it crash over her with no thought to consequences. But his eyes turned the blaze inside of her to a damn wildfire, and his words were like gasoline. She started to moan again and he kissed her roughly. 

“Gotta keep quiet, dirty girl, wouldn’t want anyone to hear you, now, would we?” He captured her next moan in another bruising kiss, pushing hips up faster and faster. She was dangling on the edge of a precipice and the next words out of his mouth - a order to come, his low voice rough with barely contained restraint - pushed her over the ledge. 

He stifled a groan as he felt her body tighten immeasurably around him, unable to hold himself back any longer. He pushed into her a few more times, aching at the resistance from her quivering body, before losing himself in her. The fire was all-consuming and they were both burning, burning, burning. 

When they came back to themselves, he pulled out of her, carefully helping her to stand on legs that shook and trembled, staying as close to her as he could, arms creating a cage around her, leaning his forehead against the top of her head as her breathing slowed. Eventually, she was able to look up at him, and smiled softly, pushing the sweaty hair off her forehead. 

He kissed her forehead gently, wrapping his hand around the back of her neck as he asked, “That… that was alright, wasn’t it? I only mean, you liked what I said?” 

She rolled her eyes and sharply elbowed him in the side as she ducked out from his arms before striding over to the mirror. “You idiot, of course I liked it,” she said fondly, trying to force some semblance of order back into her hair. Giving up in favor of a simple plait, she turned to face him and gestured at the chamber surrounding them. The large oak circular table, the papers still strewn about, the map that covered the majority of the table, the small smear of jam next to her seat from whichever child was perched on her lap at the time. He only leaned against the door, a smug smile threatening to overtake his face. 

She turned towards him, the hesitation clear in her voice, “Was it… was it rooted in something real, Jon?” 

His grin turned bashful, and his voice gruff, “Aye.”   
She merely waited, smoothing down her skirts and noting a tear at the hem she’d have to repair that evening. 

“I don’t like the way Lord Tarly looks at you,” he admitted, finally, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. 

Sansa approached him carefully, raising a hand to stroke the side of his face, a rueful grin on her face. “Ah, so that’s why you dragged me in here in the middle of the afternoon.” 

He only nodded. 

She raised his chin to kiss him once, softly, saying, “I don’t know the way he looks at me, I have eyes only for you.” He nodded again, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to keep a blush off my face during council meetings, however,” she admitted.

“I’m not sure they will be either,” he chuckled reaching to tug on her completed braid affectionately, pulling it over the love bite on the side of her neck. She merely raised an eyebrow, raising her hands to adjust his tunic. He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “You’re quite loud, love.” 

“Me?” she shrieked outrageously, brushing her skirt and re-lacing the bodice. “You think I’m the loudest out of the two of us?” 

The distinct sound of a hand slapping a forehead echoed from outside the door, before an all-too familiar voice said, “Oi, you’re both way too loud - and way too old - to be fookin’ in the middle of the afternoon like some stable boy and country lass.” 

Eyes wide, they turned to each other. Arya. 

“Are you both decent yet? I forgot Needle and I promised little Brienne I’d show her the blade.” 

Their laughter followed them from of the council room as they strolled out, Sansa’s hand tucked in the crook of Jon’s elbow, looking at each other fondly. Arya rolled her eyes, darting in to nab the blade before coming back out into the hall. Their backs were turned, and they could have looked for all eyes to see like the proper King and Queen of the North except - Ugh. She cringed theatrically as Jon took another swipe at Sansa’s arse, muttering “Gods, aren’t five children enough?”

**Author's Note:**

> I have nothing to defend myself against how this went from SMUT to FEELINGS in a half a heartbeat. Also, Dickon is alive because it's my party and he can be alive if I want him to be alive. So there, D&D.


End file.
